


crushed

by tootsonnewts



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, here's the fic about it, i...i couldn't not, y'all seen that terrible fs costume?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:33:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsonnewts/pseuds/tootsonnewts
Summary: See, here’s the thing: Otabek has a lane. He likes to stay in that lane. He knows the speed limit, he knows where the buttons on the dashboard are, he knows the best way to push the gas pedal. Yuri’s been his passenger for a long time now. He thought Yuri knew and understood everything there possibly was to know and understand about Otabek’s lane and the proverbial vehicle he drives in it. So this is an interesting speed bump.or, the time yuri found one of otabek's old costumes.





	crushed

**Author's Note:**

> because it had to happen, here is a story based off of that [horrible, horrible mess](https://twitter.com/denkimouse/status/910769695430656001) that otabek dodged a bullet on.
> 
> as usual, i'm the master of making everything about Feelings(tm), so have a little bit of that, too.

“What. The fuck. Is _THIS._ ”

Otabek’s world fades to black as the cool smoothness of velvet slides over his face. Gulping, he takes the garment Yuri tossed at his head into his hands and briefly closes his eyes to brace himself before looking down at what he already knows he grasps.

He runs his fingers over the beads and sequins. He twists the fringe of the epaulettes around his knuckles. He fiddles with the clean pressed lines in the front of the pants. He messes with the white ruffles that would button up tight against his throat. He chances a glance up through his eyelashes, enough to see Yuri standing before him in the center of their living room, hip cocked, arms crossed, perfectly practiced glare on his face.

“Beka. Answer Me. What is that _monstrosity_?!”

See, here’s the thing: Otabek has a lane. He likes to stay in that lane. He knows the speed limit, he knows where the buttons on the dashboard are, he knows the best way to push the gas pedal. Yuri’s been his passenger for a long time now. He thought Yuri knew and understood everything there possibly was to know and understand about Otabek’s lane and the proverbial vehicle he drives in it. So this is an interesting speed bump.

“Ah,” he tries to formulate his reply in the best way possible, “where did you find this?”

If there’s one thing that always throws Yuri off-track, it’s being called out for snooping (be it accidentally or on purpose – he doesn’t always mean to, he’s just naturally curious). Yuri values his privacy almost more than Otabek, so whenever he thinks he’s invaded someone else’s, he immediately becomes almost violently regretful. Sure enough, a telltale blush creeps across his nose as the realization sinks in (it’s Otabek’s favorite blush, but he’ll never risk pain of death to admit it).

“Well, you can’t just keep a box labeled ‘old skating stuff’ in _our shared closet_ and expect me not to be curious!”

He has a point. Otabek sighs.

“I mean, I think you already know what it is, Yura.”

Yuri snatches the outfit up from Otabek’s lap and begins to wave it around before him, “You’ve never worn this! When were you supposed to wear thi-this _thing?!_ GOLD CRUSHED VELVET, BEKA?! I know you’re a disaster, I totally get that, but _BEKA. GOLD. CRUSHED. VELVET._ And a, what is this, a fucking _BEADED HERO’S BADGE?!_ Beka. Beka this is a tragedy. This is a _betrayal_. I…I think we have to break up.”

Otabek presses the tips of his fingers into his eyelids.

“Barcelona.”

Yuri stops moving, and his expression quickly slides from disgust to confusion to suspicion.

“What about Barcelona?”

“That’s uh, that’s where I was supposed to wear it. It was the original costume for my free skate that year.”

“Excuse me, _what_?”

“That’s what my coach said.”

+++

“Otabek Altin, you cannot be serious.”

Otabek and his costume designer both snap their heads up from where their attention had been focused on the hem of his pants. His coach doesn’t look pleased. This is perplexing.

“What do you mean?” he tries to ask as casually as possible while battling back the panic swirling in his mind, “Do you not like it?”

“I mean, if the goal is to look like the dancing queen, it’s great.”

The reference flies directly over Otabek’s head since he’s too wrapped up in backtracking through every design choice that led him to this point.

“Although, I’m not entirely sure you really want to look young and sweet?”

She’s stifling laughter now, and so is his seamstress, and he still doesn’t understand. He knows he’s made a misstep here. He knows he’s supposed to be acknowledging whatever joke this is. All he can do, though, is stand on the fitting platform, staring at his reflection with his jaw clenched.

“I suppose it’s good that you _are_ only seventeen.”

He still doesn’t get it.

“I don’t get it, coach.”

“OTABEK, YOU LOOK LIKE A DISCO DISASTER. You can’t wear this. It’s just. It’s really not a good idea.”

This gives him pause. It also seems to give his lungs pause. He stops breathing for a second while all the cogs in his head turn around the statement. He knows he’s not a fashion grandmaster or anything, but he genuinely liked this costume. His name means gold, the costume is gold, he’s chasing gold. It all seemed to fit when he and the designer discussed it.

“But you always let me choose my designs?” he can’t help the lilt of a question there at the end. He’s genuinely confused and a little bit hurt. She’s always supported his vision before. Just like him, she’s fiercely proud to represent Kazakhstan and wants every choice they make to stand out and make their country proud. The thought that this costume might not align with that goal sucks. A lot, actually.

Suddenly, he feels insecure about every decision he’s ever made across the span of his (admittedly short) skating career. Yeah, everyone kind of makes fun of the way he dresses in real life, but have they done the same in regards to his skating life? Surely not? Wouldn’t his coach have said something? His mind whirs, and his coach must be able to tell, because he feels the warmth of her hand on his shoulder before he even realizes she’s reached out.

“Hey, it’s okay, Beka. You can’t always pick winners. But, honey, this is absolutely not a winner. You really do look like a seventies soldier. Just…crafted from the best curtains money could buy.”

Otabek sullenly thinks that he wouldn’t mind curtains that looked like this. Hell, this would probably look even BETTER as curtains. He crosses his arms across his sparkly chest. His coach must know what he’s thinking, because she starts laughing again and asks to see the other designs.

“Besides,” she adds, shifting her gaze to glance at him from the corner of her eye, “I thought you wanted to impress Plisetsky.”

+++

“Well, she was right about that. If you had worn this when I saw you skate, I don’t think I could’ve even focused on what you were doing. Beka, this is really not good.”

Otabek hops up off the couch and snatches it out of his hands, “I know! I thought it was cool at the time.”

Yuri narrows his eyes and slowly stalks closer, a predator cornering his prey.

“You still think it’s cool.”

Otabek sucks in a breath and takes a jagged step back for every smooth push forward Yuri supplies, but eventually finds himself backed into the couch, losing his balance and sprawling backward. Yuri climbs astride his lap, taking the costume back and hooking it around his neck to pull him closer.

Leaning in close enough that their lips hover mere millimeters apart, Yuri whispers, “If you were still skating, you would think this is a good costume, wouldn’t you?”

Otabek shivers against his will and nods his head, accepting defeat. Yuri closes the space, pressing their lips together in a surprisingly gentle move, considering how worked up he’d been over the course of their conversation.

“That’s why I love you, Beka.”

Otabek’s eyes snap wide and Yuri looks thoughtful.

“You’re a goddamn trainwreck. You think grandpa sweaters are legitimately cool and you make them work somehow? You own two badass outfits and the rest of your clothing is like…I dunno, you found it in a thrift store in your size and thought, ‘eh, good enough.’ And like, it _is_? Good enough? Your hair and bike are the coolest things about you but that’s completely fine? How does that even work? I’ve seen you ride that thing in fucking slacks and a polo and it made sense! I didn’t even question it! It was just like, ‘yeah, okay, there he goes.’ How does that _work_ , Otabek Altin?! Like, are you gonna dress like that at our wedding?!”

See, here’s the thing: Otabek has a lane. He likes to stay in that lane. He knows the speed limit, he knows where the buttons on the dashboard are, he knows the best way to push the gas pedal. Yuri’s been his passenger for a long time now. He thought Yuri knew and understood everything there possibly was to know and understand about Otabek’s lane and the proverbial vehicle he drives in it.

Turns out he was right.

“Our wedding, huh?”

Yuri blushes The Blush, and Otabek smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> the ring is gold.
> 
> as usual, you can find me over on [tumblr](http://tootsonnewts.tumblr.com/) and also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/these_mortals).
> 
> ily guys!


End file.
